


MINE

by LynnLarsh



Series: Domesticity is Boring [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bizarre Jamie Mentality, Blood and Torture, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Light Masochism, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sebina's Inability to Refuse, They're so fucked up man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 15:52:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4065724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wouldn't have surprised me to find Jamie was actually spying on me; she's thorough like that.</p><p>What <i>was</i> surprising was the look in her eyes when she said, "That's not how this works."</p>
            </blockquote>





	MINE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts), [pasiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/gifts).



It wasn't like it was planned or anything. Timing and alcohol mostly. But I guess that just makes it worse, really. When you think about it.

The ironic bit is she kinda looked like Jamie (to my scotch-compromised mind at least). That probably should have been warning flair number one. Dark, bobbed hair, perfectly winged, "fuck you" eyeliner, a contradicting "fuck me" sway to her hips, which I probably could have watched from one end of the bar to the other.

And did, in fact. Must have, because one second she was all smoky-eyed and mysterious over by the pool tables, and the next she was seated in the chair next to mine.

In my defense, I'd just gotten off a rather spectacular kill (moving train, cross wind, third passenger in, right through the ear canal; fucking orgasmic) and was still surfing that particular high. Couple that with the three glasses of scotch (well into the forth) and it probably wouldn't have taken much. A suggestive nod towards the loos was all I needed.

All and all, it wasn't the worst sex I've had either. It got the job done. And while the chick thing was a bit of a surprise (not exactly known for stepping outside the heterosexual box, but hey), I chocked it up to the adrenaline rush, the lingering thrill of the moment. I needed a willing body and she'd been more than willing Three time in thirty minutes behind a locked toilet stall willing.

I'd forgotten her name by the time I got home.

But Jamie didn't. In fact, she probably knew everything from the girl's primary school records to her last speeding ticket. Though all she gave me by way of warning on the matter (besides breaking into my flat... again) was a curt, "Not gay my ass."

Didn't even give me the benefit of letting me grab another drink first.

"I stand by what I said," I shrugged, slipping my gun onto the table and grabbing the scotch, a tumbler already waiting on the counter.

"Then what the fuck was that?" The tone of Jamie's voice was strange but I was just pissed enough not to care.

"You spying on me, Boss?" I smirked, pouring about half a glass before turning back to face her. She was already on her feet, stalking towards me in a way that should have been dangerous, probably would have been if I hadn't been coming off of some pretty decent sex, six glasses of scotch, and a kill shot that would have impressed even the most egotistical of hit-men.

I'd only been half joking, really. Not to say she doesn't usually have better shit to do, but it wouldn't have surprised me to find Jamie was actually spying on me; she's thorough like that.

What _was_ surprising was the look in her eyes when she said, "That's not how this works, Sebina."

In retrospect, I must have been drunker than I thought, because none of that should have been nearly as funny as it seemed.

Too cocky for my own good, I leaned an arm against the counter and took a swig. "How what works exactly?" I grinned, licked my lips, raised a fucking eyebrow for gods sake. Though my undoing was probably the cheekily added, "Last I checked, abstinence wasn't in my job description."

I didn't realize what she was doing at first, just that she was very much (and very abruptly) in my personal space, that she was way too serious for such a not-serious situation. And also that she was suddenly removing my glass from my hand and slamming it full against the wall.

It didn't shatter neatly, broke instead into jagged chunks beneath her palm. Scotch and blood and slivers of glass were sticking to the wood of the cupboards, pooling into swirling puddles on the counter, the floor.

Maybe it's all those years collecting casualties on the battlefield, but nothing sobers me up quicker than bloodshed.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I shouted, reaching for a dish towel in attempts to stanch the already steady stream of blood pouring out of her hand, but Jamie was having none of it. Instead, she just took a step back and bent down to grab a decent sized piece of glass from the linoleum.

"You're mine," she growled low and soft, though she might as well have yelled it for all the surprise (and maybe a substantial amount of terror) it instilled. Like staring into the face of a rabid animal; something was about to go down, and it in all likelihood would end with me getting maimed.

"Just calm the fuck down, Boss, Jesus!" I held up both hands, placating (submissive), the towel hanging uselessly between us. Something in Jamie's eyes shifted, blanked out; somehow that felt even more dangerous.

"That's right," she said plainly, the jagged edge of glass hanging loosely between two bloodied fingers, swaying with each step she made in my direction. Not that it took more than two before she was as far into my space as she could go.

She reached up with her free, bloodless hand, wrapped it around the back of my neck, and stayed there.

"I'm your Boss. You don't work without my permission. You don't play without my permission." Her eyes drilled deep and gouging into mine. "You don't think, speak, or _breathe_ unless I say so."

Jamie's grip tightened just a fraction, just enough to feel her nails digging into the skin at the nape of my neck.

"I own you," she leaned in close, practically whispering against my lips. "Which means I am your world, Sebina Moran."

The breath of silence that followed was almost painful. I felt liable to gag on the tension, suffocate and drown beneath the weight of it. And yet, the pure jolt of arousal at her words, her closeness... Well.

What can I say? Jamie and I never would have worked if I didn't have at least a tiny bit of a death wish.

I could swear Jamie's nails were biting bloody crescents into my skin. Could practically taste each word as she added, "I should be your everything," and then slammed my head, full force, into the cabinet.

Even with fucking galaxies exploding behind my eyes, I could feel Jamie dragging me to the floor, shoving her knee into my sternum. Fight or flight has never been an issue for me (the need to fight back is all but an involuntary, deeply rooted reflex at this point) but I couldn't manage much with the lingering dizziness of the scotch, the possible concussion. Not to mention the way Jamie was coming at me; to say she was fighting dirty would be an insulting under-exaggeration.

Aside from the occasional argument (or death threat), Jamie and I never fight, really. Never seen much of a point. So I wasn't really prepared for just how brutal she could be when she wanted, just how willing and eager she seemed to be to lay into me, flay me open, tear me to shreds. I always assumed, if it came down to it, if she ever tried to make good on one of her threats, that I would be able to take her.

I'll never make that mistake again.

That's not to say I didn't get a hit or two in; when the dust cleared, we were both a little worse for wear, littered with bruises and cuts. I'm pretty sure I broke at least two of her ribs (she might have fractured my collarbone) but there's no denying who won that fight. The evidence of that fact has been ripped into the skin of my forearm in jagged, angry slashes.

I remember it better now, in retrospect, unclouded by the overwhelming adrenaline of the fight. The pain of glass digging deep into my flesh, the weight of Jamie's body splayed across my chest, pinning me down. It feels longer in my memory, the amount of time it must have taken her to dig each harsh line into my skin (twelve lines, four letters, a grotesque branding of ownership) but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Towards the end of it, I might as well not have been fighting at all.

What I don't remember as clearly is when Jamie finally left. Just that, at one point, I was alone on my kitchen floor, streaks and splatters of my blood (and a decent amount of hers; worrisome) staining the linoleum, my clothes, the wooden drawers. I give Jamie some serious credit, though. Considering where she decided to carve me open, any deeper and I probably would have bled out before I regained enough awareness to drag myself to the first aid kit. The scar certainly makes it look worse than it probably was, anyway.

I'm not sure exactly how much time had passed before I'd bandaged myself up and stumbled (a bit woozy from blood loss and shock) into my bedroom. But that's where I found her.

Jamie was sat at the edge of my bed, dripping blood from wounded hand to duvet with a blankness about her that spoke volumes (not that I've ever been good at interpreting the Encyclopedia Moriarty). She hadn't even bothered to wash the cuts clean, must have just collapsed onto my bed in a daze and stayed there. Though whether it was from disappointment or confusion or shame (yeah fucking right), there was no telling. What I did know, was that if I didn't bandage her up, no one else would.

I still had the first aid kit on hand, so I knelt down next to her without a word (her right hand side, on the floor at her feet, of fucking course). I proceeded to wipe down each cut with antiseptic (no wince, no hiss of pain), wrap gauze and tape in generous layers around fingers and palm (no thank you, no sarcasm, nothing). But it wasn't until I'd finished, until I'd gotten back to my feet with the intention of returning the first aid kit to the kitchen, that she even acknowledged my presence.

"You're mine," she repeated for what felt like the millionth time. The severity of those words felt heavier now, though. Weighted and dangerous. So I did what I do best: I rolled my eyes, laughed it off.

"I think you made that point pretty clear," I scoffed. "Multiple times. Into my fucking arm."

Jamie slowly, carefully, gathered herself back up, got to her feet. "No, Tigerlily," she whispered, not quite looking at me until she was practically close enough to touch, close enough for me to hear each breath pass soft and quiet between parted lips. "I need you to understand." At the time, all I could think was that she sounded strange, awkward. Only now can I remember it for what it really was: the closest Jamie would ever come to pleading.

"I'm yours, Jamie," I felt myself say as if on auto pilot, reflexively, like there was nothing else in the world I could have possibly said. Jamie's eyes locked onto mine with a jolt.

"Say it again," she breathed, pulling up onto her tip-toes, leaning in.

"I'm yours," I repeated, quieter this time, but stronger, filled with more meaning than I think I gave it credit for. Even then.

"That's right," Jamie smiled, and it might have been something like relieved. Though I wasn't given much time to analyze before she was covering that distance between us and brushing her lips against mine.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't wondered what kissing Jamie might have been like. Even with the blatant (stubborn) persistence that I was straight (and in fucking denial I, guess) it's impossible not to be curious, especially when it comes to someone like Jamie. Like imaging what it would be like to snog a god. Or, probably more appropriately, the devil herself.

But even with all of those curiosities, all of those fantasies (of which there were far more than I probably ever will admit), nothing could have prepared me for the real thing.

If fighting Jamie was fire, kissing her was ice.

It was being submerged, a cold rush that prickles beneath the skin and jolts and trembles and burns in freezing currents of electricity. It was being wrenched back to the surface, gasping for air, pins and needles of want (need) expanding on the insides of my lungs.

It was suddenly being awake.

I'd never been so turned on, never wanted anything as much as I wanted to touch, taste, claim every inch of Jamie that I could. Never remembered wanting anyone so fucking bad in my life.

At one point I must have picked her up, carried her to the bed, because next thing I knew, I was laying bodily on top of her, kissing my way down her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. I must have been saying things, growling phrases I can't be arsed to remember now, because Jamie was replying, muttering gasps and hisses of, "Fuck yes," and, "Hurry, Seb, god," as I struggled to rid us both of our clothing.

I'm not sure exactly when (or how) we both ended up naked and atop each other, but thinking back, that was really the only plausible outcome. We'd been on our way to that point for months and neither of us had been willing to accept it. At least, I hadn't been. Not even close.

But once I was there, I was fucked. There was nowhere else I could have been, even if I'd wanted to be. And funnily enough, I really, really didn't.

I licked a stripe, messy and wet, down the length of Jamie's stomach, stopping only briefly to kiss a pattern onto the inside of her thigh. Jamie's hands gripped painfully (impatiently) at the short strands of my hair, nails dragging against the skin at the nape of my neck. It was almost like déjà-vu, each scratch burning away at raw and still aching skin, a tangible memory of an altercation that already felt years away. It shouldn't have been as hot as it was, but that's the thing about being fucked up: if you both are, somehow it just works. Somehow you both still fit.

I wasted no time after that; neither of us were too keen on drawing it out for very much longer (everything up to that point was as foreplay as we could have probably managed anyway). I flattened my tongue against her cunt and dragged, slow and hard, letting the tip flick out at the end to circle her clit. I'd never done much in the way of going down on a woman, mind you, but I know what I like. I know what makes me scream and beg, and so it wasn't long before Jamie was panting, gasping, moaning my name.

Like music to my fucking ears.

There was definitely going to be some nail-shaped cuts this time (added to some not insubstantial bruising I would find out about later), but the thought passed quickly as I worked a finger underneath my tongue and past the tightness of Jamie's entrance. She was practically gushing beneath my touch (an also not insubstantial ego boost), her wetness all but dripping down my chin. And if that hadn't been hint enough, the way Jamie was trembling, bucking up against my mouth, it was obvious she was a hair trigger away from orgasm. It looked to be a fucking brilliant one at that (thank you very much). But still, I reached an arm up and grabbed a bit too harshly at her breast, cupping the soft skin beneath my hand before pinching at an strained and hardened nipple. Jamie was damn near writhing as I paid my respects to both sides, raking my nails lightly over one nipple. Then the other.

Sucking her clit between my lips seemed to be all the push she needed, her hands jerking up to the back of my head to hold me in place. Her whole body tensed, back arching off the bed, and though much of my view was stuck between her thighs (also quite the delicious sight, no complaints there), Jamie's unraveling was the most beautiful fucking thing I'd ever seen.

I lapped gently at sensitive skin until her quivering stopped and her breathing slowed, until Jamie was just watching me, eyes half lidded but (finally) focused again. She sat up and I pulled away, though her hand stayed glued to the back of my head, fingers tangled in my hair.

Her eyes dug so deep, I half believed she could read my mind, see the color of my soul, tell my very future from the lines of my irises (still feel like she can, some days). She didn't say anything (didn't need to) and when she pulled me up, laid me down, settled herself between my legs in blissful reciprocation, there was nothing for me to say either.

She leads, I follow. Full stop.

The last thing I saw before I came so hard I saw white, was the blood soaking into the bandages around my arm. Twelve lines, four letters, one word: MINE. And if that just so happen to be what pushed me over the edge, tripped the wire into Jamie-induced ecstasy, well then.

That's probably all the proof I need.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, dedicated first and foremost to the wonderful and brilliant kali_asleep for being both my mentor and my muse.
> 
> And also dedicated to (and heavily inspired by) the one responsible for this avalanche of a MorMor obsession in the first place. Pasiphile, your interpretation of Seb and Jim has transcended headcanon and become literally the only MorMor truth I will ever believe. This bit of MorMor femslash is for you.


End file.
